A Blow or Two and Their Dire Consequences
by ChocolateIsMyDrug
Summary: From 'North and South'. Rioters have stormed the gates of Marlborough Mills, but strangely, they seem to have no interest in the Irish hands - rather, they seem to be after a certain Northern mill-owner...


**A/N:** So… this is an AU version of the riot – my idea of how things could have turned out. Involves high-heeled shoes, hickeys and shirtless proposals, so be warned!

* * *

**A Blow (or Two) and Their (Dire) Consequences**

* * *

'Miss Hale, I'm sorry you have visited us at this unfortunate moment.' Mr. Thornton could not help feeling worried as he watched the crowd surge into the yard, having broken open the gates. Then he gasped. 'Oh my God, they're going for the mill door!'

Margaret looked at him in indignation. 'Mr. Thornton, go out there at once and face them like a man! Speak to them as if they were human beings! They're driven mad with –' She looked out at the crowd, which seemed to be composed entirely of females of all ages, dressed rather oddly, pounding on the mill door with a ferocity no rioters had before displayed. 'Well, I'm not sure with what. But it's clear they aren't in their right minds! Go and save your innocent Irishmen!'

Without another word, Thornton strode to the front door and opened it. Instantly, the crowd left the mill door and surged towards him. Although bizarrely enough, they did not look as if they wanted to kill him. In fact, something about their screams of 'Omigosh, it's RA – I mean, JT – I mean, OOOHHH!!' and their glassy eyes deeply unsettled him.

Determined not to let any of his apprehension show, he kept his countenance rigid and stood tall and imposing, his arms crossed in front of him.

'It's The Smoulder! He's Smouldering!'

Thornton could have sworn he saw one of the women collapse. Perhaps it was the humidity.

Meanwhile, Margaret who was watching all this unfold from the window could not stop herself. She rushed out, not because she had seen a rioter pick up a stone to throw at Mr. Thornton, but because she did not at all like the way the crowd was staring at him, as if he were a piece of meat.

She stood awkwardly next to Thornton on the porch, not sure what to do; a crowd of upwards of two hundred women glaring daggers at you tends to have that effect. One of the women surreptitiously removed one high-heeled shoe and began to take aim.

Exactly what happened next, nobody was quite sure, but the next second Thornton was clutching his nose and wincing and a high heel was lying on the steps near him.

The woman who had thrown the shoe froze, looking petrified. 'Oops.' She promptly fainted, which was probably just as well for her because there was no knowing what the rest of the crowd would have done to her otherwise for possibly _ruining_ their beloved JT's lovely aquiline nose.

Margaret had no way of knowing (although she probably should have suspected it by now) that the woman's aim had been simply terrible – all she saw was that these odd female rioters had tried to hurt Mr. Thornton and would no doubt try again. Without thinking of the consequences, she did the only thing she could do, stood in front of him, using her body as a shield.

Unfortunately, this maneuver of hers only served the crowd's purpose better, as they now had a clear missile path to her, with no risk of Thornton getting in the way. Poor Margaret was soon buried under a barrage of shoes, one of the several hitting her quite hard on the temple. Her last thought before she spiraled into unconsciousness was, _Gosh,_ _Mrs. T wasn't kidding when she said _all_ the young women in Milton were after him…_

Instead of Margaret's collapse filling the crowd with horror and guilt and making them retreat, they simply continued to regard Thornton as before as he stood at the top of the steps, now with no Margaret ('Stupid Margaret,' he could have sworn he heard one hiss) to block their view of his Royal Thornton-ness.

Still smarting at the attack on the – now acknowledged – love of his life, he walked down into the crowd. 'Are you satisfied? You came here for me, so come and get me, if that's what you want!' It was possibly the worst thing the poor man could have said.

In an instant the crowd was upon him, each member of it pinching, scratching and shoving others out of their way as they surged towards him. His eyes widened in terror at their wild cries of 'Look back at me – No, _me!_ – I'd like you to play the overbearing master – You can possess me any time you want – _Get_ _his cravat off!!'_

* * *

When Mr. Thornton stumbled into the sitting room, his mother hardly recognized him. He looked absolutely exhausted, several items of his clothing were missing, and what was left of it hung about him in tatters. Mrs. Thornton stood up hastily. 'My God, John, did the rioters do this to you?'

Then she took in one more detail she had not quite registered on first seeing him. His face, neck, and what she could see of his exposed chest through his ripped shirt were covered in red markings which bizarrely enough were in the shape of women's lips.

Poor Mr. Thornton was busy trying to catch his breath and declined to reply to his mother. 'Margaret – steps – unconscious – rioters might get her –' was all he could pant out before collapsing into the nearest chair just before his knees gave out.

Quick to understand, his mother hurried out to retrieve and rescue the young woman. Through the open door floated the voices of the crowd, rising in excitement at first, but then dropping as they realized it was not their Tall Dark Handsome Cotton Mill Owner (or, TDHCMO for short). 'Where's JT? We want JT! Or, if we can't have JT, at least send out Higgins, preferably in that snazzy shirt revealing the chest hair!'

Mrs. Thornton had no idea who 'Jay Tee' or Higgins were, and she did not much care. She was too much occupied with the task of half-carrying, half-dragging Miss Hale inside the house and to a sofa (and if in her haste, Miss Hale's head was bumped more than once on a door frame or a table leg, Mrs. Thornton could not be blamed). Then she left the room to see how Fanny was faring, conveniently leaving Margaret and Mr. Thornton alone.

By this time, Mr. Thornton had recovered from his encounter with the rioters (who he never saw again except in a series of recurring nightmares in the years that followed – Higgins however did have a rather uncomfortable encounter with some of them, but that is another story) and was now gazing adoringly at Margaret, the woman who had risked her very life to save his (considering the circumstances, Thornton did not feel this was an exaggeration at all).

He sat near her, waiting for her to regain consciousness, which she did in the next few minutes. She gazed at him, urgently trying to voice her fears despite the throbbing pain in her temple. 'Mr. Thornton,' she began thickly, 'are they gone?'

Thornton clasped her hand reassuringly. 'Yes, my darling, brave Miss Hale. Never fear; we'll not see them again.'

Only then did Margaret notice that Mr. Thornton's coat and waistcoat seemed to be entirely missing, and that not much was left of his shirt except for the collar and cravat. Suddenly her corset felt about three sizes too small and the room seemed to become very warm indeed especially at the point of contact between their hands.

She feebly tried to extricate her hand, but Mr. Thornton's grasp on it only tightened. 'Miss Hale, I cannot remain silent any longer.'

As Mr. Thornton very attractively crinkled his way through a proposal, Margaret was only half-listening. Although Mr. Thornton's present attire left very little to the imagination, she could not help wondering what he would look like if he dispensed with the cravat also.

'Miss Hale?'

'Hmm?' She suddenly snapped out of her trance, realizing that he was still anxiously waiting for an answer. She glanced – oh, alright, _stared_ – at his chest once more. She would not be able to rest in peace without knowing the answer to the cravat question, so in the end there was only one option left to her…

'Yes, Mr. Thornton,' she said, and she had to will her hand not to go to his cravat. 'I will marry you.'

**

* * *

**

**A/N:** And I managed to pair off our favourite couple in the most ludicrous way I could think of! Please review with any comments or criticisms! *ducks tomatoes*


End file.
